


of all the many changing things

by Damkianna



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Corporal Punishment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, IN SPACE!, Indentured Servitude, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Or: four things that never happened to Mike and Psmith, plus one that always should.
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	of all the many changing things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> I couldn't decide between your suggestions for setting change AUs/same-universe-different-rules, so ... I just wrote a bit of a bunch of them. :D? Happy F5K!

**1\. Psmith, Space Cadet.**

Mike had been prepared for a great many things, upon arriving at Sedleigh Academy Orbital Station. He had been prepared to loathe it, to despise it; he had been prepared to spend all term mired hopelessly in the most profound discontent. He had been prepared to refuse without hesitation to admire or enjoy anything admirable or enjoyable about the place, and to languish in despair—the stolid, manly, unspoken sort, naturally—until he should be returned to the familiar curving corridors and gently rotating residential rings of Wrykyn.

He had not been prepared for Psmith.

He also had not been prepared to be called upon so swiftly to assist in collaring the lovely little observation bay that lay to the aft of the main deck. It was comfortable, and looked out by turns upon the shimmering red-gold desert world around which Sedleigh was set in orbit, or upon its nearby gleaming star and those much more distant fellows which shone blue-white and steady from the nearest cluster. But Mike was not naturally inclined to unilateral and unannounced maneuvers, and would ordinarily have left it to its rightful owner with only a wistful glance.

Psmith, however, saw no reason they should not have it. And Mike, feeling joined to him now in a spirit of steadily strengthening companionship, could hardly abandon him to attempt the thing alone.

They were tested. They prevailed, thanks in no small part to Psmith's elocutive talents and the thoroughly earnest and unsuspicious nature of the barracksmaster, Commander Outwood. Mike had learned already, in reporting of himself upon his arrival at Sedleigh, that Outwood possessed a prodigious interest in the archaeological ruins that dotted the now-dead planet round which Sedleigh circled so relentlessly. Psmith professed amiably to share it, and arranged that he and Mike should join the next weekend landing party to crawl the surface—which regular expedition Outwood, of course, habitually led—and only afterward happened to ask whether the observation bay might be theirs. Outwood was pleased to say it might. Access codes were granted. And the erstwhile owner, one Cadet Spiller, was left red and furious and entirely without official recourse.

Which meant only unofficial recourse remained open to him.

The suggestion was Mike's. He was a skilled devotee of that modern addition to the sporting group sometimes designated "club ball", which is now most commonly played in a null-gravity environment—descended from cricket, and therefore casually designated "fricket", to encourage association with both its originating sport and the "freefall" permitted by the nature of the pitch. Mike had both a distinct talent and a distinct affection for it, and it had in fact been a point of ill-will to find himself removed from his team at Wrykyn and sent to Sedleigh, which was not particularly known for its play: insult added to injury.

However, under these circumstances he perceived that it placed himself and Psmith at some potential advantage. He had already resolved that even were Sedleigh to have a team, he would not be induced to join it, he would not have any part of it; it was pleasing, in a sullen, resentful sort of way, to think of leaving Sedleigh to its own devices, and refusing to exert himself on its behalf.

But the capacities he would not exert on behalf of Sedleigh, he discovered he would happily exert on behalf of Psmith.

The proposal was ventured, and accepted. And when Cadet Spiller returned to roust them from the observation bay, with the assistance of a handful of companions, Mike and Psmith were ready for them.

Mike had opened the hatch and left it that way, by deliberate design. Spiller and his cohort advanced along the corridor, and seemed only briefly disconcerted to find they might enter without being required to short out the hatch controls to do it. Spiller was first to cross the threshold, his forces arrayed at his back.

"Look here," he said, "are you going to clear out of here or not?"

Psmith indicated with characteristic eloquence that they would not.

Warning shots were exchanged. And then, at Spiller's rallying cry, the enemy rushed within.

Mike, standing by a convenient wall interface, availed himself of the access codes they had been given by Commander Outwood and executed a command.

Sedleigh had not been built upon the same principles as Wrykyn. Wrykyn had generated an internal sense of gravity for its residents in part through rotation: "down" had in fact been equivalent to "out", with the external walls of its constantly-turning rings serving as the floor.

Sedleigh, however, performed only a single rotation upon its own axis every twenty-six hours—merely enough to give its inhabitants some impression of a day's passage, as was the standard practice at the time of its construction. It relied almost entirely upon artifice to provide both the perception and the function of gravity. And that function could be activated or deactivated at will in any individual portion of the station, without overt effect upon neighboring areas.

Mike had deactivated it. Chaos ensued.

Among the assailants, there were several who had had nearly as much practice as Mike in navigating null gravity. However, they had not been expecting to do so, and their plan of attack had relied upon basic principles of physics remaining unaltered as they made their entry. They had not been prepared to have this assumption turned on its head without ceremony. The impact of footsteps that had been intended to propel them forward sent them upward instead. They flailed.

Mike, by contrast, prepared for this eventuality and equipped with the economical grace of the experienced fricketer, struck the mass of them with purpose, at a carefully chosen angle. Within a moment, half of them found themselves returned to the corridor beyond the hatch—where gravity reigned uninterrupted, and resumed its hold on them with alacrity. A series of heavy thumps and dismayed cries arose in short order.

Mike caught the upper edge of the hatch and used it to turn smoothly, prepared to launch a renewed assault upon Spiller's remaining forces. He was surprised to find it was not necessary.

Psmith had agreed readily to Mike's suggested strategem. He had mentioned a passing interest in fricket himself, and had demonstrated a congruence with Mike's refusal to play for Sedleigh that had warmed Mike at the time. Mike had assumed this meant he would be comfortable, inclined to neither panic nor physical distress, upon the deactivation of local gravity, and had been satisfied with that.

But it now seemed to Mike that perhaps Psmith had understated his own capability. Mike had observed upon meeting him that he was rather long in build, and that he had a languid, deliberate way of moving—an impression that had only been enhanced by the lone old-fashioned scanner lens he kept affixed over one eye. That length was rendered both effective and strikingly graceful by the absence of gravity; Psmith was everywhere at once, navigating with a fluid dexterity that Mike could not help but admire. Blows aimed at him did not reach him. Attempts to catch hold of him met universally with failure. He displayed an evidently powerful understanding of mass, angular momentum, and velocity, and made use of it to great effect.

Mike did nothing more than gape, startled to uselessness, and yet within what seemed to be no time at all, the remainder of their foes had been thoroughly routed, ejected to tumble down into the corridor atop their groaning fellows, and Psmith had sealed the hatch behind them.

"A capital showing, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith with satisfaction, twisting to smile up sideways at Mike, who was floating at an acute angle to him.

Mike became suddenly aware that he had been staring, open-mouthed. A flush of heat filled his cheeks; his skin prickled; he felt it necessary to look anywhere but Psmith, with the greatest haste.

"That won't be all," he managed to say.

"You are most assuredly correct," agreed Psmith. "Merely an opening salvo. We shall have to act decisively to prevent a protracted campaign taking shape. I cannot withstand this sort of excitement on a repeated basis, Comrade Jackson, my deepest nature is too sensitive for it."

But his mouth slanted yet. His eyes were bright with victory. He was drifting gently closer to a bulkhead, and with an easy push redirected himself toward Mike.

Mike's throat went tight. His heart pounded. He felt abruptly conscious that Psmith was closing with him, reaching for him—then Psmith's hand set itself upon his uniform sleeve, his wrist. Velocity, decreased by Mike's inertia but nevertheless inevitably transferred, sent them spinning slowly toward the great transparent holding-field that formed the observation window.

Mike had intended to offer to return to the control interface, and reverse his initial action. The words fled. Psmith was too close, or perhaps not close enough.

He perceived dimly a single comfort: something crossed Psmith's face that seemed to echo the tentative warmth tingling along Mike's nerves. His mouth softened from the remnants of that smile to a look that was more sober and yet not in the least forbidding. Mike detected a faint wash of color pinking up Psmith's cheek.

"You were smashing," said Mike.

It came out strange, a little hushed. He felt pained by the inadequacy of the words to capture the fascination Psmith's casual skill had wrought in him.

But if Psmith discerned that inadequacy for himself, he made no comment on it. "You are too generous, Comrade Jackson. You conducted yourself with admirable aplomb—you must be rather a sight on a proper pitch, I dare say."

A compliment in any respect, given by Psmith at this moment, would have pleased and humbled Mike greatly. But on a subject so close to his heart, into which he had poured a great deal of effort and which carried tremendous weight with him, the effect was undeniably multiplied. It took on an almost intolerable keenness.

Mike swallowed, and reached shyly for the collar of Psmith's uniform, curling his fingers round the impeccably starched edge of it. Psmith did not recoil.

"Thanks awfully," said Mike quietly.

Psmith looked at him with wide dark eyes, and, uncharacteristically, said nothing. Mike saw his throat work.

And then—

* * *

**2\. Psmith, Midshipman.**

"Well?"

First Lieutenant Downing's tone was filled with equal measures of scorn and relish. Mike knew better than to risk either a glance or an answer, and kept mum, eyes forward, standing at attention.

"You are ill-advised to continue in this uncooperative attitude, Mr. Jackson," said Downing. "Speak up, man."

"I have nothing to say, sir," said Mike, "except what I have said already. I didn't do it."

Downing made a disbelieving sound, and paced closer. "You leave me no choice, Jackson," he said, as one who had not wanted a choice and would have preferred to pretend none existed had such been offered to him. "Steps must be taken. Ship's discipline demands it. Captain Outwood shall not abide such misdeeds among his crew, and neither shall I."

This, Mike knew, was not entirely true. He had only been aboard _Sedleigh_ six months, and yet that had been time enough to discern for himself that Captain Outwood was a kindly sort, inclined to quiet lectures and a stern headshake on the rare occasion he found himself disappointed in the conduct of his men. He did not seek out cause for complaint, and was pained when it was given to him.

The same could not be said of First Lieutenant Downing, however. He approved of men who liked him; his eye passed over them, benevolently shuttered, and fastened itself instead to any who had even once displeased him, no matter how minor the provocation. He sought reason to find fault with zealous diligence, and his efforts were often rewarded, because he chose that they should be.

And First Lieutenant Downing did not like Mike at all.

"Theft shall not be tolerated on this ship, Mr. Jackson."

"I didn't do it, sir," said Mike doggedly, though he knew already it would not help him.

And, sure enough, Downing fixed him with a gimlet eye. "So you persist in telling me. I will not be lied to, Jackson—"

The cabin door flew open. Mike and Downing both turned toward the interruption, Mike blinking and Downing red with irritation at this fresh effrontery.

It was Psmith. Despite his entrance, he did not look harried in the least. Indeed, he was the very picture of a fine young midshipman; his only deviation from the standard uniform was the habitual eye-glass.

"I beg you will forgive my bursting in upon the scene in this dramatic fashion, sir," said Psmith equably, to Downing. "It had to be done. Conscience demanded it: I was pricked, prodded, relentlessly and unceasingly poked—"

"What is the meaning of this, Smith?" interrupted Downing furiously.

"It is in connection with the theft you have been so assiduously investigating, sir," said Psmith.

"What involvement have you got with any of it?"

"I did it, sir," said Psmith, and held out his hand; and upon it was a small brass bell.

That was how the whole matter had begun.

Among the habits that had made him generally unpopular aboard ship, except among that select number who were showered with his favor, Downing had something of a fixation upon running emergency drills, over whose proceedings he presided with the help of a small brass bell.

He carried it with him everywhere. He was rarely to be found without it. It appealed to his sense of order; visions of a crew so fit and sure, so entirely ready to spring into action, that they could be roused and assembled on deck at the ring of that small brass bell were rooted deep within him, and he labored relentlessly to make them manifest. If he were in a good mood, running a drill—inevitably executed in a wholly dissatisfying manner, even if that dissatisfaction must rest upon one man possessing a single hair out of place—could be relied upon to make it grim. If he were in a grim mood, a drill would only make it worse. There could be no relief.

And then the bell had gone missing.

It may be admitted that Mike had been tickled by the facts of the case. The midshipmen had all shared some small amusement at the disappearance of the hated bell, not to mention an unspoken but deeply felt gratitude. It was a hard thing, to be let off duty and to settle at last into the cradling comfort of one's hammock belowdecks—to close one's eyes, and exhale, and allow one's limbs to relax at last in an attitude of respite—only to hear that faint high jingling break out.

But he had not done it. Mike was a practical, easy-going sort; to contrive such a theft, and from amongst the personal possessions of an officer besides, much less to carry it out without a twinge, was simply not in him.

Between Mike and First Lieutenant Downing, however, there existed a barely-banked and thoroughly mutual dislike. Mike displeased Downing; the theft of the bell displeased Downing; to Downing, therefore, the two seemed naturally and fundamentally connected. He suspected Mike at every turn, he would not quit. He had already had Mike's belongings turned out of his trunk twice and gone through, and, as one afire with the righteous flame of injured pride and profound conviction, finding nothing either time had only made him more certain he had correctly identified the guilty party.

Psmith had not done it either. Mike was absolutely certain of it.

But Psmith had produced the bell. It could not be denied. And to have the pleasure of punishing Mike snatched from his hands did not incline Downing to leniency.

"Twelve lashes," gritted Downing, eyes bright. "And you are lucky it is not more."

"Sir," said Mike, but too late.

Downing turned to him. He had not failed to note an association between Mike and Psmith, though only in the broadest terms; his distaste for Mike extended to Psmith by proxy, if less powerfully. Still, it occurred to him now, in the grip of a roil of white-hot anger, that he yet possessed the means to cause Mike pain, if indirectly.

"You, Jackson," said Downing. "You'll do it."

Mike experienced a great and stirring rebellion of mind and spirit. "I will not, sir," he said, much more sharply than he should have in speaking to a first lieutenant.

Downing was grimly pleased. Mike saw this, and perceived it for the warning it was, and did not budge. He could not. To watch Psmith lashed, when he knew it to be undeserved, would be difficult beyond words. To be made to apply those lashes himself was inconceivably worse. It could not be borne. He would not have it.

"Yes, you will," said Psmith.

Mike turned to him with a look of pure and naked betrayal.

"You will indeed," said Downing, "or by God I shall see you keelhauled."

"You must, Comrade Jackson," repeated Psmith quietly, and, so entreated, Mike could not find the words to refuse him, however dearly he wished to.

It was a blur, and at the same time it seemed to last forever. Mike retained sufficient presence of mind to turn away, while Psmith was stripped to the waist and bound to the mast; it seemed all that was in his power to do, to refuse to witness that indignity, and yet still pitifully little.

And then he was pushed forward, and the cat was put in his hand. He looked down at it, and experienced a moment's wild helpless desire to hurl it overboard.

But Psmith had asked. Psmith had insisted. And Mike found to his own distant surprise that however much he loathed the idea of applying the lash to Psmith himself, he was stirred to still greater heights by the thought that if he did not, Downing would do it. Downing would do it, and would enjoy it.

If Mike could do nothing else for Psmith, he could at least guarantee that Psmith would not be lashed by one who did not feel each stroke as though it fell upon his own back.

Mike could not waver. He must swing the cat with force. If he did not, Downing would no doubt issue another dozen lashes, and another, until Mike's blows satisfied him.

Mike stepped up, and tightened his grip on the cat until his knuckles were white and aching.

He swung.

Half a dozen sharp red lines rose across the diagonal length of Psmith's back. Psmith made no sound; a ripple of tension passed beneath the skin, muscles working and easing. Mike heard him draw a slow breath.

Another stroke. Another. Mike's arm felt hot. His face was wet. Another; another.

The sixth stroke cut, in two places. Psmith jerked a little against the mast. Mike almost wished he would cry out—would shout, would curse Mike to hell and back.

Downing was counting, voice prim and filled with satisfaction. The deck was silent otherwise, and Mike understood vaguely, with a vindictive sort of pleasure, that Downing was winning himself no new adherents among the crew by this demonstration. Even the men who did not like Psmith did not like him because he was quick and clever and able, not because he was a thief.

"Go on, Jackson," said Downing, when Mike had paused too long.

"Aye, sir," said someone who did not seem to Mike to bear any relation to himself at all.

He laid down the next four strokes as quickly as he was able, bile sour at the back of his throat. He tried to spread them evenly, tried not to cross his own strikes, but he still cut Psmith to bleeding thrice more, and at the eleventh stroke, a low sound was drawn at last from Psmith's throat.

Only that, no more. Mike drew his arm back, and the last swing, he made the hardest of all: he did not want to risk that Downing would not count it and would make him go on. He flung the cat sharply to the deck when it was over, trembling through the limbs; and it was a long and difficult moment before he could make himself move to free Psmith.

He was helped in it by the master-of-arms, and drew Psmith's arm over his shoulders, and helped Psmith down to the surgeon. Psmith's face was drawn; he did not speak. Mike was grateful for it. He did not like to think what Psmith might have to say to him.

The surgeon liked Psmith. He would be seen to. Thus assured, Mike left.

He had been on duty when he had been called to attend First Lieutenant Downing. He returned to it. The bells passed almost unheard. Mike felt unmoored, adrift; he was surprised to be caught by the hand of the third lieutenant upon his shoulder, and to be told he was relieved and must go below.

For a moment, he almost wished to refuse. But sense took hold, and he ducked his head and saluted, and did as he was told.

He should have eaten. He did not want to. He went straight to his own hammock, and got in it, and lay there, staring up at the underside of the deck, for a time.

And then he could not bear it any more, and he rose, and crept down to the surgeon.

It was late, even as a ship's day is measured. The sick bay was dim, lit by a single gently swaying lantern. The surgeon was scratching away, making notes, accounting for supplies; he did not even look up when Mike came in, but sat undisturbed and hummed absently to himself.

If he had had many patients to tend to, no doubt Psmith's back would have been cleaned and patched up, and Psmith sent directly back to his bunk. But _Sedleigh_ had not seen action in some while, and the surgeon had been endeared to Psmith besides; he had allowed Psmith to remain and sleep there, and that was how Mike found him.

Mike stood for a time, looking down at Psmith's long narrow face. It was only barely illuminated by the distant lantern, but that did not matter. Mike knew it too well to need a light to see it now.

His heart felt pressed tight in his chest. He thought to himself vaguely that he had better go; and then he found himself sinking to his knees, and reaching out to brush the back of Psmith's near hand with the tips of his fingers.

Psmith did not shift at the touch. He yet slept, Mike surmised.

"Sorry," whispered Mike. "Psmith—I'm sorry."

"What on earth for?"

Mike startled. Psmith's hand turned beneath his and caught his wrist before he could topple entirely, and for a moment they were frozen like that, Mike red-faced and abashed, Psmith peering up at him curiously and not letting go.

"You did as you were ordered," said Psmith, "and as you were asked, Comrade Jackson. The former of which you are most firmly bound to do, at least until that most glorious day shall dawn when the navy is at last made to embrace the wisdom of socialism. Whence these mad, reckless apologies?"

Mike could not hope to articulate the singular agony it had caused him to set each of those dozen lashes in motion. He swallowed, and bit his lip, and aimed as near to the matter as he could get. "Look, are you all right?"

"Tolerably," allowed Psmith. "Make no mistake, my tender nerves have been rent to shreds—but as it happens, we Shropshire Psmiths are a hale and hearty stock. I shall not have fussing, Comrade Jackson. In point of fact, I forbid it."

Mike felt dangerously close to laughter and to weeping, both, and began to fear he might make a scene attempting to split the difference. He had not freed his hand from Psmith's grasp; he was aware that he should, and yet he did not.

"Psmith," he whispered unsteadily, and reached out. Quite independent of himself, he thought, his fingertips were alighting against the line of Psmith's jaw. "Psmith, I'm _sorry_." He stopped, and tried desperately to master himself. "Where on earth did you turn up that bell, anyhow?"

"Oh, thereby hangs a tale," murmured Psmith, who was gazing up at Mike with searching eyes. "Unfortunately, I am sworn to secrecy even from you; suffice it to say it had been parted from its master through accident and bad luck, and was not returned for fear," and here he shifted a little where he lay upon his side, seeking a more comfortable attitude, "of the consequences."

Mike let his eyes fall shut. "You lunatic," he said.

"Harsh words, Comrade Jackson. Harsh indeed. I am cut to the quick."

Mike snorted, and made himself look at Psmith again.

He began to think he should not have. Psmith was still gazing up at him in that strange seeking way; in the dimness his eyes seemed very large and very dark, in his long thin face, and the surgeon as good as on the other side of the world from the two of them, Psmith lying prone and Mike kneeling by him. Mike's fingers were still poised just to one side of Psmith's chin.

"You shouldn't have," murmured Mike. "You shouldn't have. Not for me."

"Codswallop," said Psmith.

And then—

* * *

**3\. Psidhe.**

"What's this?" said Mike.

Psmith looked up. "Ah, there you are, Comrade Jackson. Exquisite timing, as per usual. Your perspicacity knows no bounds; I have often thought so."

"Outwood wants to see him," said the other boy, much more helpfully. He was familiar to Mike, though he belonged to a lower form and Mike could not call his name to mind.

"Well, I'll come along, then," said Mike.

"Outwood only said him."

"See here," said Mike. "Did Outwood say I _couldn't_ come?"

"I guess not," admitted the boy, after a moment's thought.

"All right, then," said Mike, and looked at Psmith.

Psmith looked back at him, and something passed across his face that Mike was entirely at a loss to name.

And then he stood in his usual languid way, adjusting his eye-glass, and said, "Yes, very well. Let us be off, then."

Mr. Outwood seemed almost disconcerted to see them, though it was his summons that had brought them. He stood, and cleared his throat, and offered them something that approached a smile; but his usual matronly warmth was lacking, his stance uneasy.

"Ah, Smith, there you are," he said. "And Jackson. Good of you to come, very good of you."

"I'm given to understand you had a matter you wished to discuss with me, sir," said Psmith amiably.

"Yes, Smith," said the headmaster, and glanced at Mike. "I suppose it involves you, Jackson, in a sense."

"Sir," said Mike rather guardedly. This did not seem like a promising opener.

"I don't for a moment wish to provoke undue distress for either of you," said Mr. Outwood unhappily. "However, it has been brought to my attention that inquiries had better be made sooner rather than later." He cleared his throat. "Now, Jackson, I don't suppose you have ever noticed anything ... odd ... about Smith here?"

Mike was briefly stunned by the impossibility of responding to such a question. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir," he said at last.

"Yes, well," said Mr. Outwood vaguely. "Certain rumors have been brought to my attention, you see, and I should like to have matters settled before the governors' board gets wind of it."

Mike did not flinch. "Is that so, sir," he said steadily.

Mr. Outwood looked distinctly uncomfortable. "It gives me no pleasure to ask," he said, "but I must. See here, Smith, are you ... that is, have you any relations who are ... who are rather out of the ordinary way?"

Psmith looked politely baffled. "Not a one, sir, I'm sure."

Mr. Outwood cleared his throat, and reached out, and set upon his desk, balanced on its square flat head, a lone nail.

"You understand I have to be sure," he said. "Please pick that up for me, Smith."

Psmith glanced round, as if he could not be sure to what Mr. Outwood might be referring. "I apologize, sir—what shall I pick up?"

"That nail, Smith."

"This nail, sir?" Psmith indicated the nail upon the desk with care, as if there were another in proximity with which it might readily be confused.

"Yes, that nail," said Mr. Outwood patiently. "If you would."

"I do not see the purpose in it, sir," murmured Psmith, "but for you, I shall undertake the task regardless."

He reached out with one long pale hand, and closed his fingers upon the nail. Lifted it, and turned it round, and rolled it between two knuckles thoughtfully; and then he glanced at Mr. Outwood, and tilted his head.

"Will that be all, sir?"

Mr. Outwood blew out a breath, and his eyes fell briefly closed. When he opened them again, Mike saw he was restored entirely to himself: he beamed at Psmith with all his usual fond benevolence, and seemed quite relieved. "Yes, that will be all, Smith. Thank you."

"Shall I leave the nail, sir?"

"Oh, yes, quite. Quite." Mr. Outwood held out his hand, and Psmith deposited the nail upon his palm with an indulgent, quizzical sort of look, as to say he could not imagine what all that rigmarole might have been about, but he was glad to have pleased Mr. Outwood, and would not hold it against him.

He bid Mr. Outwood a lovely afternoon, and Mike did likewise. They left, and crossed the house to return to their study. They passed several other boys with whom they were acquainted, and paused to talk a little, and then carried on.

They reached the study at last. Psmith sat, arranging himself with a louche and relaxed air. Mike closed the door firmly behind them, and locked it; and when he turned round, he knew Psmith had heard him do it. Psmith remained seated, but there was a certain tension in his shoulders, and his gaze felt distinctly sharp upon Mike's face.

"All right," said Mike. "How bad is it?"

Psmith was very still. "I am at a loss, Comrade Jackson—"

"Stuff it," snapped Mike. "Come on. How bad is it? Let me see."

Psmith looked at him, and said nothing.

And then, within the blink of an eye, the air shifted round them, and Psmith's fingertips changed. They had been pale and whole, before; now they were not the sore red Mike might have expected, but _black_ , black and raw and seeping a little, and Mike made a soft urgent sound in his throat and scrambled for a clean rag.

"Are you going to be all right?"

"Oh, certainly," said Psmith, but the tone was all wrong, low and steady where it should have been airy, dismissive. He was still watching Mike, too, in that piercing fixed way, and he had not moved an inch. "It was only a nail, Comrade Jackson."

"It was _iron_ ," said Mike, and took Psmith's hand in his, and wrapped the rag gently round it: the two fingers that had got the worst of it, and the tip of Psmith's thumb, and then he pressed the end carefully between the pair of Psmith's knuckles which were burned likewise. "You cast that glamour jolly neatly," he added. "I didn't even see it. He couldn't have noticed."

"It's been said I've something of a talent for such things," said Psmith, very evenly. "Forgive me if I'm ungracious, Comrade Jackson, but it seems I find myself behind the times. The extent of your comprehension of matters I had thought entirely concealed has set me upon my heels."

Mike looked at him, and then away, and shrugged a shoulder, clearing his throat. "You're Fair," he said. "You were stalling Outwood to give yourself time to cast. It's all right. Look, is this helping? I don't actually know what I'm doing."

Psmith was silent for a moment. "If you could open the window," he said at last, softly. "And a cup of clean water would not go amiss."

Mike followed both instructions to the letter with alacrity, in the order they'd been given. When he returned with the water, Psmith was holding his burned hand spread out upon the windowsill in the afternoon sunshine, with a gentle breeze gusting into the room.

He looked up and met Mike's eyes, and swallowed, and then gestured with a shadow of his characteristic confidence for the cup. He poured perhaps a third of the water out across the awful black burns, and for a moment Mike thought nothing had happened—but then he began to see they did not look so raw anymore, and the edges were lighter.

"Sun, wind, water," murmured Psmith.

"Sun, wind, water," repeated Mike, who did not mean to be caught out so badly in future. There must be ways he could find out more about the Fair; there must be ways he could better aid Psmith, if something like this were to happen again.

Psmith stared at him anew. Mike felt his face heat.

"You are a gem, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith quietly.

"Oh, rot," said Mike.

He knew about the Fair. Which is to say he knew the sorts of things people said about them, about what they were like. That they were thieves, liars, cheats—that they stole children, memories, souls. That nobody decent had any business with them, and if they knew what was good for them they would go back underhill whence they had come, and leave ordinary folk in peace.

But he also knew Psmith. He knew that if Mr. Outwood had seen that the touch of iron had indeed burned Psmith, Psmith's term at Sedleigh would have come to an unceremonious close, and Mike might well never have seen him again. If it should turn out that everything else Mike had ever heard was true, and Psmith wished to have a year and a day of Mike's life, or one of his hands, or the color of his eyes, then as far as Mike was concerned, he could; Mike would not miss any of them half so dearly as he would Psmith.

"The P," said Psmith, and then stopped, and wet his lips. "It's real. It's mine. Rupert Smith isn't my true name, not without that." He gave Mike a strange thin smile. "You're not meant to tell anyone, if you can help it."

Mike gaped at him. "You shouldn't have told _me_. Psmith—Smith," he made himself say, because he ought not to go around using the P right and left himself, not if it was like _that_.

"Don't be ridiculous, Comrade Jackson," asserted Psmith, chin high. "I did not elect to impart such a precious sequence of phonemes to you so you could go around mispronouncing them willy-nilly."

Mike looked at him, and swallowed. He reached for the cup, and poured another helping of water over Psmith's hand, and the worst of the burn went with it as it sluiced away, and left Psmith's knuckles looking almost all right. "Psmith," he allowed himself to murmur, and touched those knuckles gingerly with the tips of his fingers. "And do you ... are you ... ?"

Psmith took mercy on him, and did not leave him fumbling for the words to ask. "Only a bit," he said, with a graceful wave of his uninjured hand. "I suppose you'd like to see?"

His tone was casual. But his eyes had gone sharp again, and his bad hand was tense and still beneath Mike's touch.

Mike steadied himself. "Yes," he said. "I would."

This was a larger and more complex glamour than the little one Psmith had put over his hand; it took Psmith a proportionally greater effort to undo, and the effect was likewise more dramatic. The air wavered visibly, between Psmith and Mike. Mike's ears popped.

He understood immediately what Psmith had meant by 'only a bit'. Psmith was not vastly altered—he did not look unfamiliar, or less like himself. If anything, he looked rather _more_ like himself, in a way that was difficult to define. It was as if he had been brought abruptly into clear focus, where before Mike had always been squinting for him a little, and hadn't even known it. He was ever so slightly taller, ever so slightly narrower; his hands were some unaccountable fraction more graceful, his eyes by the same degree more intense.

"If you feel the urge to run screaming," said Psmith, "please do it promptly, so my nerves may take the shock all at once rather than having the thing drawn out overlong. I am a sensitive soul, Comrade Jackson."

"No need," said Mike.

Psmith met his eyes in a narrow searching way, as if he were trying to work out whether or not to believe it. He _was_ Fair, Mike thought. He really was. He looked wild and lovely and not quite real, and Mike felt impossibly lucky to have gotten to see him so.

"Psmith," he said, and touched Psmith's chin with the side of one knuckle; and he hadn't quite realized exactly what urge he _was_ feeling until he saw Psmith's eyes go wide.

And then—

* * *

**4\. Psmith, Legal Indenture.**

Mike had known he would be passing near the auction grounds. They were not an unfamiliar sight: the auction block itself was visible from some distance, and Mike's route on any given day, to or from luncheon with friends in the city, or on some errand or other, was as likely as not to take him skirting round the edge of it.

He had even had cause to enter said grounds, now and again. Not for himself; he did not want an indenture, and probably could not have afforded one even if he had. But certain businessmen of his acquaintance, or his father's, sometimes wished to meet there, and Mike accommodated them.

He had never before had cause, however, to recognize the faces of any who stood upon that auction block. And it certainly had not crossed his mind, not even during the most idle, reckless wandering of his thoughts, that he might one day look up in passing, and see Psmith there.

Mike came to an abrupt and complete halt. He stared. He could not fathom it, it seemed unreal, and yet he blinked and pinched himself and still this peculiar vision did not pass. It was undeniably Psmith.

Older, Mike understood distantly, and that too lent the sight unwanted reality. If Mike had come to picture this, to dream it, his wayward brain would undoubtedly have contributed Psmith's image as Mike knew it best and had most recently seen it: Psmith as he had been at Cambridge, years ago, before they had lost touch with each other. It had been unimaginable then, Mike recalled, with a wistful pang. That he and Psmith should be parted, should meet rarely and more rarely still and then at last not at all—the Mike of Cambridge would have found the idea baffling in the extreme, unsupportable, preposterous.

But Mike was not that Mike—and this was not that Psmith. This Psmith was taller still, and narrower, though Mike could not imagine how he had managed it. He looked out across the crowd before him with a disinterested air, where Mike might have expected a vaguely intrigued and patient look, as one who waits in the amiable hope that something interesting, having been promised, may yet occur. And yet there was something languidly dismissive in that expression which suggested to Mike that the fundamental spirit of Psmith as Mike had known him best had been retained.

Really, Mike thought, the strangest thing about seeing him this way was that his eye-glass was gone.

Mike moved forward through the crowd. Psmith was not up at auction yet, he perceived, but would be shortly. He appeared to be one of a sequence of several lots being offered at an extreme discount.

Mike did not question this stroke of luck. He approached the block, waited for the current auction to conclude, and gestured to the auctioneer.

He inquired; a sum was named, in the spirit of efficiency and with the authorization of the present debt-holder; he agreed. A basic arrangement was made, and within another few minutes Mike watched as Psmith was escorted from his place in line.

Mike would, it transpired, be allowed to take him home without delay.

When he spared the matter a moment's thought, Mike was dimly surprised by it. Surely somebody ought to check his credentials, or run some sort of investigation on him, or have his flat inspected. Surely they didn't simply let anyone at all purchase an entire person, and then hare off with them before the ink on the contract had dried.

But the rest of him, unthinking and gut-deep, was grateful for it. He must get Psmith out of here. Whatever it was that had happened, whatever sort of trouble Psmith had managed to get into, together they would work out how to free him from it, how to pay through whatever remained of the debt that had indentured him. It was the least Mike could do for him—and it would amount to a fraction, surely, of what Psmith had once arranged to pay Cambridge for Mike's attendance there.

Mike would have done far more, and earlier, if he had only been aware there was a need. Had Psmith not known how to contact him? Or had it been impossible for some other reason? Mike could not begin to guess.

Once the paperwork was done and Mike had settled the matter of payment, Psmith was brought to him. It was only then, when Psmith glanced round and saw him, and went still, that it occurred to Mike that he might not have paid any mind to some chap in the crowd speaking to the auctioneer for a moment—that he might not have been told, might not have had any idea, who it was with whom his debt now officially rested.

Psmith looked at him for what felt like a long time. Mike, far from garrulous even at his most comfortable, had not the first clue what to say to him.

They were still within the auction house. Psmith glanced away, and wet his lips, and said, "Mr. Jackson, sir."

Mike flinched from it, instantaneous and ungovernable, and felt himself begin to go red.

"Come on," he said, brusque, as indeed he always was when in profound distress, and then he took Psmith by the elbow and led him out.

The walk to Mike's flat was not a pleasant one.

Mike did not feel able to speak to Psmith. Not there, on the street. He was aware that he could not be sure he would not shout, or weep, or take Psmith by the shoulders and shake him until he acted like Psmith again. He was gripped by sweeping surges of intense emotion; it was almost as though some part of him had gone gradually numb in Psmith's absence, and had now been jolted abruptly awake.

Psmith, too, was quiet. This rattled Mike further still. By the time they stood together safely within the entryway of the flat, with the door closed firmly behind them, Mike's throat felt so tight he could not imagine even a single word would fit through it.

"Sir," said Psmith, after a moment.

"Don't _call_ me that," snapped Mike, suffused with revulsion at the word. Coming from Psmith, addressed to him, it was thoroughly intolerable.

Psmith fell briefly silent. "My apologies," he said; and there, at last, Mike was relieved to hear the barest hint of meaningful inflection, the vague condescension Psmith had occasionally taken on when he felt ill-used.

"Look, Psmith, what on earth happened?"

Psmith looked at him sharply. Mike could not begin to guess why. And then Psmith wet his lips and repeated, "Psmith," and Mike, with the ease of prior habit, discerned the deliberate echo of Mike's own retention of the silent P.

He flushed. Perhaps Psmith had given up the affectation, in the years since Mike had known him. Perhaps he was now Smith, or even—surely it was possible—Rupert. Mike thought it should not have been so hard to get his head round the idea; and yet Psmith had always been Psmith to Mike, from the moment he had first spelt his chosen cognomen for Mike aloud.

"Is that ..." Mike cleared his throat. "Should I not ..."

"Oh, Psmith will do very well, thank you," said Psmith, sounding more like himself with every word.

"All right," said Mike. "Look, Psmith, you'll have to put up with this for a while."

Psmith's expression turned remote.

"I'm sorry. I am. But I can't pay it all at once. A year, or maybe two." Mike bit his lip. "I'd do better if I could. I hope you know that."

A furrow crossed Psmith's brow. He blinked. "You speak in regards to my debt."

"Yes," said Mike.

"You intend to pay said debt."

"Yes," said Mike.

"A debt I now putatively owe," observed Psmith contemplatively, "to you."

"Yes," said Mike, who could not see where any cause for confusion lay; it was all very straightforward, as far as he was concerned.

Psmith looked at Mike for a moment that stretched itself out strangely between them. His eyes were bright, and Mike felt caught by them, pinned. And then his mouth moved—he smiled, only a little at first and then suddenly wider.

"I have done you a grave disservice," he said softly, and then stopped and swallowed, once and then again. "A grave disservice indeed, Comrade—Comrade Jackson."

Mike's eyes were hot; they stung. He reached out, half-blinded, throat aching, and found Psmith's shoulder, and gripped it tight.

"But I must insist that you allow me to earn it."

"Psmith," said Mike, protesting.

"Mike," said Psmith, very quietly.

Mike fell silent, and rubbed a hand across his face, and shook his head. "All right," he said. "All right, if that's the way you want it." He stopped, and looked at Psmith, and laughed; it was small, and damp, but that was what it was. "I've got an opening for a—a confidential secretary and adviser. If you'll take it."

Psmith's mouth slanted. "You are without equal, Comrade Jackson."

Mike turned red, and ducked his head. "Rot," he said, and self-consciously withdrew his hand where it had rested yet upon Psmith's shoulder. "Look, I've got a room you can use. I'll get it straightened out for you, and then you can—"

He stopped. His hand had not withdrawn as intended; it had crossed only a quarter of the distance. Psmith had caught it there, and seemed disinclined to relinquish it.

"I realize," said Psmith, "that this is hardly the opportune or appropriate moment, and might in fact be more accurately characterized as the direct opposite. But it strikes me now that I have let a great many inopportune and inappropriate moments pass me by, without appreciating that they might prove themselves only a little less limited in number than their more promising fellows. The blame is mine and mine alone, Comrade Jackson; I refused to call upon your aid precisely because I knew you'd give it without hesitation, but you mustn't think I didn't feel your absence keenly. What is a man without his confidential secretary and adviser?"

This was a great series of revelations stacked one upon another, and Mike did not have the context to grasp the import of them all. He fixed upon the one he understood most clearly, and regarded Psmith with a thunderous frown. "What do you mean, you _refused_? What a load of nonsense."

If he had thought it all over more thoroughly, of course, he might have reached some understanding of Psmith's motives, though he would not have been any happier if he had. It might have occurred to him that at the time that his and Psmith's acquaintance had begun to steadily attenuate, his family's finances had remained unstable, even without the costs of Cambridge to drain them. He might have been forced to acknowledge, as Psmith had, that entanglement in Psmith's own suddenly perilous pecuniary affairs could easily have led to the indenture of Mike himself likewise, though it is safe to say he would not have reached the same conclusion as to the course of action Psmith ought to have taken in response.

But he did not think it over—not then. For Psmith had not let go of him, and now stepped closer, and Mike's mind went entirely blank. He heard again, as if Psmith had repeated it aloud, Psmith's voice saying, _I realize that this is hardly the opportune or appropriate moment_ , and was suddenly conscious of having failed to ask, _For what?_

"In the hope that it may serve as reassurance to you," said Psmith, hushed, "though it pains me to admit it—I must confide I doubt I'll have the strength to do it twice."

"Psmith," said Mike hoarsely, reaching for him in return.

And then—

* * *

**+1. Mike and Psmith, Happily Ever After.**

(And then—)

Mike rubbed his thumb daringly along the line of Psmith's jaw; or perhaps Psmith tipped Mike's chin up. Mike drew in a sharp breath—that one is the next best thing to a constant. One of them moved first, or they moved at the same time. They bumped cheeks, and noses, and chins; Psmith's eye-glass toppled, or was allowed to fall, or was not there at all.

Their mouths touched. They kissed, and kissed, and did not stop, except of course for those instances when that barest little brush was enough to startle them away from each other again in shy surprise. They bit their lips, and stole cautious glances at each other, and tried again.

In the end, though, one way or another—they got it right.


End file.
